The memorial is easy
to pass without noticing, which I did, Tuesday afternoon. What I didn’t know
was that there are two memorials erected in memory of the 13,000 Jewish men,
women and children who had been held in the Vel d’ hiv, a winter cycling arena,
for six days in July of 1942 without toilets, with little food or water, minimal
medical care as the temperature inside the locked airless building climbed and
climbed, French police, guarding. All the Jews would be shipped to Drancy, a
transport center, then to Auschwitz. This particular memorial, I assume, marks
the exact spot where the Vel d’hiv had stood. It was torn down in 1958.
I stand on the sidewalk of the Boulevard
de Grenelle, just down the street from the Metro station, looking at a fenced
plot of land, maybe forty feet by forty feet, the grass too tall and full of
weeds. A daisy like weed blooms, a crumpled up piece of paper resting among its
white flowers. Dandelions bloom. A low stone wall borders a garden. Like the
grass, the garden is overgrown and very dry. A yellow hose coils on the ground
under a faucet. A second hose lies among broken irrigation pipe. A plaque
honors the dead. A red ambulance sits parked at the curb.
In
the sidewalk, a recessed date, a cigarette butt obliterating the last number,
but I know the year this site was dedicated: 1994.
A
woman wearing faded jeans, a bold red and black striped shirt approaches. Flanked
by two girls who look to be about twelve or thirteen, she rummages in her
purse. The girls, too, wear jeans, sleeveless shirts, sneakers, one pair pink,
the other white. I guess they are friends. The woman holds a tea candle, lights
a match, then places the lighted candle onto cement just inside the iron fence.
Silently, I recite the beginning of Kaddish, the prayer for the dead, because
that is all I know, the first five words.
As
they leave, I speak in English. I’m assuming they’re German tourists. They’re
Dutch. “That’s was so thoughtful,” I say “to bring a candle.”
“They
read the book. Sarah,” the woman says, tilting her head toward the girls. “Sarah,”
she says again.
“Ah,” I say. Sarah’s Key.”
“Ah,” I say. Sarah’s Key.”
“Yes,”
she says.
The
girls nod.
As
we speak, the woman, mentions a second memorial, closer to the Seine. Without
her, I would not have found the magnificent sculpture depicting a family of
five, a pregnant woman and her husband, a woman alone, all victims of the Vel d’
hiv.
I
didn’t read Sarah’s Key. It is not a
book I would choose. But, wanting an easy way to gather history, I saw the
movie. I got the visuals I wanted and more, horror that stayed with me,
sensationalist horror. I didn’t think much of either one, book or movie. How
wrong I was to judge. Sarah’s Key
brought this woman and these girls to the Boulevard de Grenelle, not just to
look as I was looking, but to light a candle. And what does this meditation have
to do with my Bat Mitzvah? I have
been brought to a new place of learning. Dare I say of understanding? I’m too
judgmental. But not so judgmental that I can’t learn.
It's good that you saw this place and wrote about it Sandell. Maybe more people will now visit who also missed the book. Another chance to show the Holocaust deniers the horror of what truly happened. Such idiots need their noses rubbing in the sites dedicated to the lost.
ReplyDeletexx Hugs xx
Many thanks David. Maybe, we'll get the grass cut and the weeds pulled.
ReplyDeleteHow moving to have this coming together of you and the Dutch threesome. The little moments made big.
ReplyDeleteLove those special moments. Thanks for reading, Patty.
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